


De Temps en Temps

by Avocadontt



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Rewind Powers (Life Is Strange), Season/Series 01, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-11-19 10:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18134774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avocadontt/pseuds/Avocadontt
Summary: After his showdown with Garret Jacob Hobbs, Will Graham develops the power to rewind time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> So I'm a slut for time travel tropes and I was really hankering to read a fic where Will has rewind powers. Couldn't find one, so I decided to write? one. I have a rough outline for the next few chapters but I'm basically making this up as I go along. This is technically my first fic ever if you don't count the Archie fic I wrote back in 4th grade. Enjoy! 
> 
> Also: the dialogue of the first few chapters will borrow heavily from the tv show scripts.

 

 ****

* * *

 

Will wakes to the sensation of thorns wiring themselves throughout his body.  The pain skewers itself into his heart and lungs, squeezing the pair to the point of palpitation.  His intestines are a mess of writhing snakes as cords of agony wind about their interior, pushing forward to oust the organs from their rightful domain.  Wheezing between spasms of pain, Will struggles to wake his limbs from their paralysis, but the nightmare refuses to admit defeat. As if insulted by Will’s resistance, the torment strengthens its hold, the flashes of pain exceeding the speed of his movements to form their own cadence.  It would have been blinding, but Will's hotel room is already submerged in the black of midnight. _Jesus,_  it feels like he is being _disemboweled._

 

In the face of the darkness, Will's eyes catch sight of a growth budding from his abdomen. It is a bright, brown velvet- several layers peeling off as it grows to new heights, rising to tower over Will's prone figure. Specks of blood spatter onto Will's face, drowning out his eyesight in a sea of red; he is being impaled alive, slowly and tortuously by a set of livid antlers. Will's frantic intakes of oxygen are abruptly cut off by a long finger of velvet stabbing through his trachea- reaching for its overhanging twin. Will yearns to claw at his throat, but his arms remain limp at his sides, as the antlers rise higher and higher and higher...

 

In his mind, Will screams.

 

* * *

 

A chorus of chirping birds accompanies the break of dawn, the autumn sun drowsily creeping through the hotel window blinds. It sets aglow the chaos of the room, a feat of disorganization that Will has managed to accomplish in no less than two nights.

 

Forcing himself off the bed, Will clumsily finds his way to the bathroom door, drunkenly pushing the handle forwards.  Each step requires an exorbitant amount of energy, and when Will reaches the bathroom sink he clings to it like it's a lifeline.  Upon looking into the mirror, Will _wishes_ he couldn't recognize himself- but the truth is, the bags that rest under his eyes, the exhaustion that crowns his every feature- have grown to become a familiarity rather than an oddity.   _I look like a dead man walking,_  Will thinks as he undresses, cringing as he realizes that the greenish tinge of his face is also to be found in the rest of his body.

 

The hot jet of the shower water is a welcome distraction from his thoughts.  Will _knows_ that returning to work for the FBI means the return of the night terrors, but last night had still taken him by surprise.   _Impaled alive- just like Cassie Boyle. Were those her final moments?_ Shuddering despite the heat of the water, Will lowers his hand to his midsection, splaying his fingers over the dead cold that meets him there.   _The Minnesota Shrike's work.  Or so Jack thinks._

 

The cleanliness of a fresh shirt and boxers leaves Will feeling conflicted- crime scene images are still dancing in his mind in all their gruesome glory.  The heat of the shower has left him dry-mouthed and nauseous, complementing his empathy for Cassie Boyle and her ill-fated demise. _A real cocktail of fun._

 

Re-entering the hotel bedroom alerts Will to a concentrated _thudding_ against the front door.  Reluctantly, he moves to grasp the doorknob and is slightly startled by the knocking's immediate ceasing.  Already on edge, Will swallows hard as he opens the door.

 

"Good morning, Will.  May I come in?"

 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter, dressed to the nines, is standing on his doorstep holding a thermos and baggie.  Will feels a wave of self-consciousness wash over him in his pathetic excuse for morning wear, but the psychiatrist’s smile is warm and nonjudgmental.

 

Looking to the doctor's side, Will realizes that they are short one burly FBI officer.

 

"Where's Crawford?" Will hears himself ask, disdain not far from his tone.

 

Hannibal's response is swift. "Deposed in court.  The adventure will be yours and mine today." He leans forward to peer inside the hotel room. "May I come in?"

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal takes the opportunity to speak as he pours himself some coffee, carefully eyeing his host's ravenous expression.  "I'm very careful about what I put into my body," he shares, moving to fill Will's cup, "which means I end up preparing most meals myself."  A satisfied smile spreads like a well-fed cat across Hannibal's face as he gestures toward the meal. "A little protein scramble to start the day.  Some eggs, some sausage."

 

Inside the baggie are two Tupperware containers, tastefully filled with a well-purposed admix of eggs and sausage.  Will remembers at that moment that he hasn't eaten in over twenty-four hours, and the thought intensifies the attraction of the meal.  The smell of freshly brewed coffee accentuates the scent of the food- a bitterness to contrast the savory. It could safely be called a work of art.

 

Will glances up at Hannibal as he brings a piece of sausage to his mouth- who is smiling pleasantly as if he is enjoying the _opera_ rather than watching a stranger eat breakfast- savoring the food despite the doctor's attentiveness.

 

"It's delicious. Thank  you."

And Will means every word of it.  The one bite makes him feel more human than he has in days.

 

Hannibal absorbs this information, nodding his head ever so slightly.  "My pleasure."

 

Waiting for Will to fill himself with a few more bites, Hannibal soon jumps into an attempt at conversation.  "I would apologize for my analytical ambush but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you'll tire of that eventually so I have to consider using apologies sparingly."

 

"Just keep it professional," Will manages, almost too busy on eating his meal (he has now moved onto the eggs).

 

A flicker of amusement dances across Hannibal's eyes at Will's brusqueness.  "Or we could socialize like adults, god forbid we become friendly."

 

Will looks up from his meal and recognizes the tease in his tone.  It isn't mocking, but Will refuses to surrender to the psychiatrist's cheer.

 

"I don't find you that interesting," Will intonates, moving his eyes back down to his unfinished eggs.   _His cooking, however..._

 

"You will."

It is a declaration.  Will doesn’t stop to consider it.  It’s still too early for socializing, and he has just finished his eggs.

 

Noticing Will's irreverence, Hannibal switches the subject, ever persistent in conversing.

 

"Agent Crawford tells me that you have a knack for the monsters."

Will leans back in his chair, eyeing Hannibal accordingly. "That's a superstition."

 

"I called your good friend Dr. Bloom about you," Hannibal calmly replies, "...she wouldn't gossip, not a word.  She's very protective of you. Smitten, I would say. She asked me to keep an eye on you."

 

At that moment the gazes of the two men lock, and Will realizes that his earlier sense of _unease_ has not dissipated.

 

"I don't think the Shrike killed the girl in the field," he announces, quickly moving to mask his anxiety on the topic of _Dr. Bloom_.

 

"The devil is in the details.  What didn't your Copy Cat do to that girl in the fields?  What gave it away?"

 

Will feels himself go short of breath at the memory of his most recent nightmare.  "Everything." _A means to an end. A demonstration._ "It's like he had to show me a negative so I could see the positive.  That crime scene was basically gift-wrapped."

 

Hannibal Lecter's eyes are all-seeing, his mind's hind legs crouching in preparation for an "analytical ambush."  With a disarming smile, he speaks, "The mathematics of human behavior. All those ugly variables. Some bad math with this Shrike fellow."

 

Will gives Hannibal a look that could only read as "no kidding."

 

Continuing, Hannibal matches Will's stare, "Are you reconstructing his fantasies?  What kind of problems does he have?"

 

_Curiouser and curiouser, Dr. Lecter._

 

"He has a few."

 

Hannibal shoots back without skipping a beat, "Ever have any problems, Will?"

 

"No."   _The bullet ricochets_.

 

With a smirk, Hannibal finishes his own last forkful of eggs.  "Of course you don't. You and I are just alike. Problem free.  Nothing about us to feel horrible about."

 

Setting his fork down, Hannibal tilts his head to the side- "I think Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup, the finest china used only for special guests."

 

Will can't resist laughing.  Here he is in all his glory: Dr. Lecter, with the fancy morning outfit, using _Jack Crawford_ and _dainty teacup_ in the same sentence.  When the tears dry, Will joins in on the joke.

 

"How do you see me?"

 

But Lecter doesn't respond immediately.  After a pregnant pause, he says,

 

"The mongoose I want under the house when the snake slithers by."

 

And his eyes are honest.

 

* * *

 

 

Will tries his best to ignore Dr. Lecter's stares on the ride to the construction site.  This one is just a little too eager, but they all give up eventually. The prize of Will Graham's mind isn’t worth his stubborn misconduct.

 

Pulling into the construction site, Will steals a glance at his unwanted partner in crime.  He expects to find the man as placid as before, but he is _grinning_.  His teeth, immaculate like rest of him, stand out against the muddled backdrop of the construction site.

 

Will can't help himself.  "What are you smiling about?"

 

Hannibal doesn't meet his eyes, choosing to continue smiling in the direction of a rusted yellow park trailer up ahead.  "Peeking behind the curtain. Curious how the FBI goes about its business when it isn't kicking in doors."

 

"We're lucky we're not doing house to house interviews," Will scoffs, unbuckling.  "We found a little piece of metal in the clothes Elise Nichols had on. A shred from a pipe threader."

 

Now Hannibal turns to face him.  "Jack Crawford wants me to make sure you're of sound mind and body...to look for metal pipe threaders?"

 

 _It is all pretty ridiculous,_ Will smiles to himself, resisting from rolling his eyes.  "That's between you and Jack."

 

Exiting the car exposes both men to a sunny, early morning day.  Will adjusts his glasses in the face of the glare, moving on ahead as Hannibal follows en suite.  The camper sits on its last legs like a dying animal, moping up towards the sky as one would for a piteous reward from its master.  The thought sends a pang to Will's heart. He misses his dogs.

 

The inside of the camper trailer is a scene Will can sympathize with- papers are askew, and the secretary donning the only desk looks feverish with overwork.  Her nameplate is cheap plastic, the ink of its text- _Secretary Dixie Alonzo_ \- smudged on the left-hand corner.  Will doesn't need an empathy disorder to see that two strange men entering her office goes unappreciated.

 

"Can I help you?"  She drawls, her voice betraying her annoyance to the hilt.

 

Will steps forward with his badge in hand.  "Will Graham, FBI. I need to take a look at your files."

 

* * *

 

 

"Two fellas from the FBI.  They're going through drawers now, putting papers in file boxes.  Yes, they're taking things. No- they didn't say when. Yes, they can.  Well, I can't remember--" Dixie cups the bottom of the bright red landline phone. "What did you say your names were?"

 

Hannibal peers up at Will, expecting him to answer.  Will ignores the tension of their stares, his fingers wrought around a resignation letter that reads _Garret Jacob Hobbs_ at the top, but not much else. _Phone number.  No address._ Will chooses this moment to snap out of his reverie.

 

"Garret Jacob Hobbs," he speaks, controlling his excitement.   _This could be it._

 

The secretary hangs up the phone, an eyebrow quirking up at the mention of the man.  "One of our pipe threaders," she studies the drawer Will is thumbing through, "those are our resignation letters.  Plumbers union requires them whenever workers finish a job," she says pointedly.

 

"Did Mr. Hobbs have a daughter?" The thoughts are coming in at lightning speed now.  "Eighteen or nineteen, wind-chafed? Plain but pretty. Would have had auburn hair," Will holds his hand a few inches short of his own height, "about this tall."

 

"Maybe.  I don't know."  Dixie furrows her brow, shaking her head.  "I don't keep company with these people."

 

Hannibal sets down the papers he himself has been examining, an inquisitive expression shining through his aristocratic features.  "What is it about Garret Jacob Hobbs that you find so peculiar?"

 

Will hands him the resignation form, "Left a phone number, but no address."

 

"Therefore he has something to hide?" Hannibal questions, his eyes roving the paper.

 

Will shrugs, "Everyone else left a home address."  He turns toward Dixie- "You have an address for Mr. Hobbs?"

 

* * *

 

 

After they finish hauling the file boxes and loading them into the car, Will and Hannibal are on the road again.  The Hobbs's house is certainly off the beaten path, and the old rent-a-car wheezes and bucks over a series of gravel roads.  After passing through a gateway of shrubbery, the two men find themselves at a modest, middle-class home. The entrance, quaint in a modern sense, is carved out of stacked stone and sits like a quiet giant.  The walkway up to the house leads Will right before the patio stairs, which mirror the bleached white of the doorway.

 

Will doesn't react immediately when the woman tumbles out of the front door, gushing spurts of blood onto both his person and the stone floor.  The look of panic in her eyes is paralyzing and summons forth a stab of sympathy in Will's own throat. Red quickly spreads to meet the tip of Will's shoes, shocking him out of his paralysis.  

 

Unholstering his gun, Will charges into the house, weaving in and around corners to land in the kitchen- in front of Garret Jacob Hobbs and the knife he holds against his daughter's throat.  She matches the profile of the previous Minnesota Shrike victims to a near T, her auburn hair mussed against her father's shoulder and the blue of her eyes dilated in fear.

 

Will fires instinctively, grazing Hobbs’s shoulder.  But he’s half a second too late and the girl is already on the floor, her neck split wide open.  Six more shots and Garret Jacob Hobbs is on the ground. With a mad panic Will finds himself on the floor as well, clumsily pressing his hands against the wounds Hobbs's has inflicted on his daughter.   _No, no, no no nonono_

 

From his left, Will can feel the burn of Garret Jacob Hobbs's gaze.

 

Will stares back with wide eyes, his hands soaked with the blood of the Hobbs girl.  The _pounding_ within his skull forces him to make out the words on Hobbs's mouth by reading the man's lips, which mimic the hiss of a snake in their breathy, brutal declaration.

 

_See?_


	2. Chapter 2

                                                                                                      

Father and daughter disappear as Will's line of sight descends into a whirlwind of red.  The maudlin yellow of the Hobbs’s kitchen blurs and rends into fragments that twirl about Will's vision as a deep ache stretches across his temple.  

 

Amidst the pain, Will senses himself locking up- his mind instinctively blockading itself from stimuli.

 

Gone fishing, he prays.  Will needs the stream and its steady waters right now, if only to keep himself from collapsing into the floor. His fishing pole has transformed into a tether to sanity over the years, grounding him through its splintered length and easy cast.   _Gone fishing.  The pack. Anything, except-_

 

“Will? Will, are you alright?”

 

The sound catapults Will into a dismal looking hotel room.   _His_ hotel room.  And he is seated.  With an untouched breakfast of eggs and sausage laid out in front of him.

 

He looks down at his hands and sees that they are still covered in blood- an angry, fresh red.

 

"Will, you're bleeding." A voice rings out.   _The same one from before._

 

Tracing the direction of the sound, Will's eyes set upon the perplexed visage of Hannibal Lecter.  He’s holding out a Kleenex, apparently for Will's use. Stunned, Will reaches out to accept the soft tissue but is not quite sure what to do with it.   _Bleeding?_ He had rammed the door with his shoulder, but what could _tissue paper_ do for _that-_

 

"Will, your nose." Hannibal is examining him now with a curiosity that befit a jungle cat more so than a man.

 

"What?" Will murmurs as he cradles the Kleenex in his hands.  Droplets of blood continue to rain down onto his lap and palms.  It isn't a pretty sight.

 

Without warning, Will shoves himself out from under the plastic dining table, rasping a quick "excuse me" before performing a mad dash for the bathroom.  Locking the door behind him, Will shrinks down to the linoleum floor, clutching his head (which is throbbing something fierce). _What is happening?  Why is he back eating breakfast with Dr. Lecter?  What the hell is going on?!_

 

Raising himself up towards the sink, Will spots himself in the mirror.  The lower half of his face is covered in blood, finding its supply in a steady stream of the stuff from Will's nose.  But other than that, Will is untouched- in fact, he’s dressed in his baby blue boxers and white tee from this morning (of which are now heavily stained from his nosebleed).  He can even still smell the hotel shampoo from his shower. _This isn't possible.  Did I just hallucinate all that?  The Garret Jacob Hobbs confrontation?_

 

A series of polite knocks from the other end of the door shake Will out from his train of thought.

 

"Will?" Hannibal communicates from the other side.  "Is everything alright?"

 

He sounds concerned.  Will shakes his head _as if that would get rid of the hysteria_ and rolls his shoulders.  He moves to turn on the sink, the metal handle a cool comfort against his burning skin, and sighs as he watches the water begin to pool.  In one quick motion Will splashes it onto his delusional, blood-crusted face, rubbing his hands vigorously so as to clean off the majority of the mess.  When he is satisfied by the mirror's reflection, Will moves to shut off the water. It should've been easy enough, but his wrist hits against the paper cup standing on the rightmost edge of the sink.  "Shit," Will whispers, his hand whipping out to catch the falling object, when-

 

In a split second the cup is back to where it was before.  Jaw slack, Will stares at it for several more seconds, his brain unable to register the movement.  The only constant amidst the frozen shock of the situation is the sink faucet’s downpour of tap water.  Standing upright, Will faces the mirror once more. His eyes look frenzied, and the sight frightens Will enough to shut them.

 

Without thinking, he outstretches his right arm and splays his palm against the air, channeling the same instinct from before.  His head is _whirring_ from the effort and Will senses his nose has started bleeding for a second time.  But when Will opens his eyes, the sink faucet has been shut off.

 

The sound of knuckles rapping against the door, then, "Will? Is everything alright?"

 

A sensation is building in Will's stomach.

Detaching himself from the floor with what feels like leaden steps, Will unlocks the bathroom door to the face of a very concerned Hannibal Lecter.  A slight frown is built into his expression, and Will has to stop himself from barking with laughter at the hilarity of the situation. From Dr. Lecter's perspective, Will sat down to eat breakfast only to bleed all over it and then leap into the bathroom.  Suffocating a half-mad chortle, Will pushes past to dig underneath his hotel bed, all the while not speaking a word in response to a very unsettled Hannibal Lecter. But he needs to find his phone while there is still time.

 

Keeping a distance, Hannibal speaks carefully, "Will, you need to finish your breakfast.  What's provoked this sudden mood swing?" Stopping for a moment to take in the sight of the crouched, bloody FBI agent, Hannibal continues, "I would apologize for my analytical ambush but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you'll tire of that eventually so I have to consider using apologies sparingly."

 

Hasn't Will heard those words already?  Suddenly, his hand hits the cold screen of the smartphone, and he quickly moves to pull it out from under the bed.

 

When Will finally chooses to respond to Hannibal, he talks as he searches through his list of contacts, spotting Jack's number easily at the top of the _most recent calls_ page. "Thank you for the meal, Dr. Lecter.  But something has come up." Hannibal's confusion builds on his face, and Will wonders if he means to look so _disappointed_.  "It's about the Minnesota Shrike."

 

Perking up, Hannibal approaches Will and stands by his side as he dials Jack's number.  "You mean to tell me you've got our man?"

 

Will plants the phone against his ear and shrugs.  "Just a hunch."

 

Jack takes his sweet time responding.   _Deposed in court, my ass_ Will scowls, counting the seconds as the phone dials and rings.  It seems like hours pass before he picks up.

 

"Will."

 

"Jack."

 

"What's going on?  You know I'm busy in-"

 

"I know who the Minnesota Shrike is."  Will spits out, and feels Hannibal shift in surprise at the statement.

 

A hesitant pause- Jack's breath is wavering.  "You do?"

 

Delusion or not, Will isn't going to take any chances when two innocent lives are at stake.  "You know how we’re looking into the construction sites? Look into the one in Bloomington- big, ugly camper for an office- and ask the Secretary for a file box labeled "Resignation Letters," Will takes in a deep breath, his words unable to keep up with the speedy track of his mind, "There you'll find one signed by a 'Garret Jacob Hobbs.' Pipe threader.  Left a phone number, but no address. Secretary should tell you he lives at 141 Oakwood Lane- real neck of the woods."

 

Jack soaks in the information. "Are you sure he's him?"

 

Will nods his head against the smartphone.  "Has a daughter, auburn hair, blue eyes- almost an exact replica of the victims.  It's him, Jack. "

 

The dragged _beep_ of the disconnect tone is music to Will's ears.  The success of having convinced Jack of _something he isn't sure of himself_ fills him with the confidence that perhaps it is more than a delusion.

 

Setting the phone atop the alarm clock of the bedside table, Will lands with a _thud_ into the bed itself.  He covers his face with his hands, looking between his fingers for the window- only to catch Dr. Lecter's utterly mesmerized expression.

 

_Oh.  I'd forgotten he was here._..

 

A sparkle of adoration gleams in his eyes as he looks down at Will's slouched and bloodied form.

 

The shift in the mattress tells Will that Hannibal has sat down beside him.

 

"Tell me, Will," he speaks softly, "What did I just witness?"

 

* * *

 

MINNESOTA SHRIKE BEHIND BARS

 

BLOOMINGTON, MN-- _The Minnesota Shrike has finally been apprehended after eight months of terrorizing the local community. Known to his neighbors as Garret Jacob Hobbs, the Shrike targeted young women that closely resembled his daughter, Ms. Abigail Hobbs (see picture on the right).  Obsessed with his daughter, Hobbs often set his victims up in elaborate scenes to emphasize their purity, once such example being Elise Nichols- who was strangled to death before being “laid to rest.” Jack Crawford, Head of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit in Virginia, has declined the opportunity for an interview.  However, according to an anonymous source at the Bureau, it has been confirmed that the agent responsible for the Minnesota Shrike’s capture is a man by the name of WILL GRAHAM. “We weren’t even informed that Hobbs was a suspect- it was all very sudden. But I know Will Graham is at the root of it- one phone call from him and Jack is all in a flurry,” they tell me. WILL GRAHAM is a hot topic amongst psychiatric circles, with rumors stating [continued below]...”_

 

Will shuts his laptop in disgust.   _That’s Tattlecrime for you_.  The media attention on the Minnesota Shrike case is staggering- several websites hinting at an “interview with Garret Jacob Hobbs” but never following up on the promise.  All the publicity does nothing to ground Will in the reality of his situation. He still can’t understand it- the ability came out of left field. Time travel? Rewinding time? It all sounds like insanity.

 

But a delusion it is not.  Following Garret Jacob Hobbs’s arrest, Will had taken advantage of Jack’s good mood and declared himself in need of a well-deserved “sabbatical.”  Yet the past few days have been anything _but_ a vacation- Will’s newfound powers are as equally inconvenient as they are terrifying.  First off, the slightest surprise _automatically_ sends him back in time at least two minutes (just as it had been in the bathroom at the hotel in Minnesota).  Will has tested this hypothesis thoroughly; picture yesterday afternoon- he decides to break every single one of the dinner plates in his kitchen, and yet there they are in the cabinet, still standing and neatly stacked in perfect towers.  Just this morning Will had startled himself awake by falling off his bed, but no bruises are to be found on his body.

 

Second, the logic of the power is inconsistent- at times the rewind transports Will back to his previous location, on some occasions it is his surroundings that shift during the temporal disturbance, and rarer still is when both Will and an object from the present are sent back in time. Similarly, he still can not explain how he managed to go back _several hours_ in time on the day of the Hobbs arrest: using the power to rewind further than half an hour leaves Will feeling exhausted and light-headed.  And finally, _the nosebleeds._ While perhaps a small sacrifice in exchange for the god-like ability to manipulate time, Will is certain that in a few weeks he shall have run dry every Virginian convenience store of tissues.  More than that, the nosebleeds break out in conjunction with a migraine _every damn time_ , typically crippling Will beyond a second rewind.  Thus, the days pass quickly after Garret Jacob Hobbs’ capture (minus about sixty minutes worth of nonconsensual rewinds), and now Will finds himself staring down at an appointment card for a “ _7:30 with Hannibal Lecter.”_

 

Like the man it portends to, the card is enameled and pristine.  Will can’t deny that its impeccability adds to his anxiety about the whole arrangement, but there’s no digging his way out of this one.   _Jack won’t have it._

 

Then, chastising himself, Will thinks back to Dr. Lecter’s words from another timeline- _fragile little teacup._ He’s a grown man.  He can’t allow himself to be bullied around by Crawford anymore.  Will is _going_ to the appointment, but he can’t make any promises on behalf of Dr. Lecter’s performance.

 

Glancing down at his wristwatch (which Will has made a habit out of since the development of his so-called _gift_ ) he sees that the time reads as 5:30 PM.  Two hours. Will sighs, and doesn’t know if it’s out of relief or dismay.  He hasn’t seen Dr. Lecter, or anyone associated with the FBI for that matter, in over three days.  At that moment, tresses of brown dance through his mind. _Alana_.  Will hasn’t talked to Dr. Bloom since before the arrest.

 

_She's very protective of you.  Smitten, I would say,_ a voice whispers.   _She asked me to keep an eye on you_.

 

Will shoves his hand away so as to stop from hitting himself.  Dr. Lecter is in his head today, and all of it comments from a conversation that will never take place.

 

* * *

 

On the ride to Hannibal’s office, Will’s mind wanders.  The rewind power has destroyed any hopes for honest psychiatric help.  After all, it’s made Will into a dishonest man. This session alone is doomed to be riddled with half-truths and outright lies about his past and present.   _Can’t exactly say I shot Garret Jacob Hobbs and watched his daughter bleed out before me_ .   _In an alternate timeline._

 

Just as Will moves to turn on the radio a loud honk echoes out from behind him.  Grumbling, Will shoots a look into the rearview mirror.

 

But his gaze is distracted by a bloodied Garret Jacob Hobbs, who sits with a smirk in the car’s backseat.  A bounding pulse compresses Will’s heart and stomach as his mind goes blank with panic. Losing sight of the road, the car swerves into the neighboring forest, smashing violently against-

 

Will regains consciousness a few feet outside of his farmhouse in Wolf Trap, Virginia.  The car still rests in park an arm’s reach away, and Garret Jacob Hobbs is nowhere to be found.  His watch reads 6:15 PM. Groaning, Will tilts his head back as the blood begins to run free, a few stray drops already dried into his jeans.  The dogs whine from inside the house, sensing Will’s distress. The scraping of their paws against the front door adds to the _stinging_ Will feels in his heart, which pumps hot flashes of adrenaline throughout his body.  Echoes of shredding glass and metal mid-crumple bounce off the walls of Will’s mind and he promptly vomits into the tall of the grass.

 

This is more than just an accidental rewind.  More than a few broken plates, more than falling out of bed, _more_ _than_ holding a dying Abigail Hobbs in his arms.  This power _has_ _saved_ him from certain death.

 

He hasn’t killed Garret Jacob Hobbs in this timeline.  He isn’t going to kill Garret Jacob Hobbs.

 

So why does his ghost haunt him?

 

Will risks another look at his watch.  6:25. He’s going to be late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, 3 months later...


	3. Chapter 3

                                                                                 [](https://imgur.com/Tv4WC1z)

 

“Tell me, Will, where have you been these past few days?”

 

Hannibal Lecter’s office is elegant in its design; dressed in colors ranging from a bleeding red to paisley green, Will is in awe of how much it emulates the nature of its maker: eccentric, intelligent, and _well-decorated._ Hannibal himself is sporting a plaid suit and maroon tie, with a pair of brown loafers to complement his hazel pocket-square.  His posture is ram-rod, his legs crossed to form a model of perfection. This is a man in his prime.

 

“Is ‘in my head’ too banal?” Will quips. “I’ve been a little lost these past few days, Dr. Lecter.”

 

Hannibal’s mouth forms a thin line.  “Hannibal is fine.” Cutting Will’s refutations short- “You took a three-day sabbatical after just a few weeks worth of consultation work.”

 

“Well, _Hannibal_ , the Minnesota Shrike case took a lot out of me.”

 

“Perhaps that is why Jack Crawford has requested a psych eval. You’ve left a lot of questions unanswered in your absence, Will.”

 

Will averts his gaze, glancing at the form in the man’s hands.  “Well, I’m eager to get back to work...that is if you agree, Dr. Lecter.”

 

“What you need is a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there.”  Hannibal's right hand breaks from the left so as to hold out the paper, inviting Will to see the results of the evaluation for himself.

 

Will takes it and skims through the spotless script.  He’s passed with near-flying colors. “...did you just rubberstamp me?”

 

“You're totally functional and more or less sane. Well done.”  The crinkle in Hannibal’s expression is one of ineffable amusement, and he looks to Will in search of a kindred spirit.

 

Will plasters on a smile for propriety’s sake.   _This is all some sick cosmic joke._ “Thank you.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes flash with a penetrative acuity at Will’s words, and his excitement fades in response to what he perceives as insincerity.   _There’s that damned disappointment again._ With a tone that does nothing to express the hurt of rejection, Hannibal speaks: “Jack Crawford may lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn't break you and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork.”

 

Will’s mind throbs from the whiplash of Dr. Lecter’s emotions.  It’s a chore to look him in the eyes. “Jack thinks I need therapy.”

 

Hannibal appears to be lost in thought.  His chin rests on the curl of his hand as he looks Will up and down, contemplating something.  “I'm not sure therapy will work on you. Stealing into other minds has taught you how to fortify your own.”

 

Will lets his surprise show at Hannibal’s perceptiveness.  “That's what I said.”

 

Hannibal grants Will a sympathetic smile.  “These sessions can be whatever you need them to be.  View me as a sounding board for your ideas if necessary- everything spoken in this room is entirely confidential.”

 

The clarity of his words performs as a deep comfort to Will.  The past three days had been chaotic to say the least; to hear Dr. Lecter speak in simple terms is liberating.  Will finds himself smiling down at his lap, snapping his head up to hand back his psych eval _._  Maybe this _could_ work, despite everything.

 

Hannibal places the paper to the side before continuing, “Tell me about Garret Jacob Hobbs.”

 

The question catches Will off-guard.  He lets loose a sharp whistle. _What a loaded question._ “The Minnesota Shrike. Eight victims in total.  Preyed on coeds aged between eighteen and twenty-two, all of whom closely resembling his daughter Abigail Hobbs.  Cannibalized the organs of his victims.” Will considers his language for a moment, “...a reverential act by which he cleansed the girls.  Beatified them.”

 

“Eight victims and not nine?  What of Cassie Boyle?” Hannibal asks innocently, ever the dutiful psychiatrist.

 

Will rolls his eyes, exasperated.  “We've been over this. The Shrike didn't kill Boyle.  Her killer sought to humiliate her- to make a spectacle out of her death.”  Will can sense the pendulum swinging, “She was nothing more than a pig for slaughter,” he spits out, the words dirty on his tongue.

 

Will is accustomed to Hannibal's confusion by now, but he's taken aback by the look of bewilderment on the psychiatrist’s face all the same.   _Does he disagree with my analysis?_ Then, mentally slapping himself, Will remembers- _‘we've been over this.’_ Of course.  That conversation was erased after Will's trip through time.

 

The urge to rewind is overpowering as Hannibal gently addresses him, “This is our first time discussing Cassie Boyle, is it not?”

 

Will smiles weakly to cover his blunder.  “...yes. Sorry about that. I'm used to Jack pestering me.”  

 

The apology doesn't appear to satisfy Hannibal.   _He's been rude._ Out of desperation Will lets the pendulum swing, seeking out the words Dr. Lecter needs to hear.  But it's a struggle- Will can't untie himself from the Copycat killer's moorings.

 

_Her resistance is futile.  His movements are effortlessly precise; he teases the hunting knife into the girl's flesh so as to savor her terror.  Her muffled screams are music to his ears. Without warning, he plunges-_

 

Will's eyes are smarting from the effort.  Defeated, he opens them. Dr. Lecter is all-smiles.

 

“Eight victims and not nine?  What of Cassie Boyle?”

 

Instinct makes Will put a hand to his nose, anticipating the nosebleed before it begins.  Lazy drops of blood still manage to slip between the cracks of his fingers. _Shit._

 

“May I use your bathroom?”

 

* * *

 

The commute to the FBI headquarters is relatively painless, but Will still feels himself go cold when considering the backseat of his station wagon.  Needless to say, when he reaches Academy's parking lot it’s a relief to exit the vehicle and leave the memory behind him for the time being.

 

Unfortunately, his setup for class would not go undisturbed.  Jack is ready and waiting in Will’s classroom, his back turned to the entrance as he presumably scrutinizes the projection board.  Will slows his pace as he enters the lecture hall but knows that Jack can still hear him anyway.

 

“Will.” His tone is stern and authoritative.  There’s no room for misunderstanding.

 

Will copies his inflection, “Jack.”

 

Jack isn’t put off by Will’s show of confidence and charges forth into his interrogation.  “How did you know it was him?” Then, as if he had to clarify, “Garret Jacob Hobbs.”

 

Will freezes in the middle of the classroom, clutching his leather messenger bag.  He had known to expect these type of questions. Awkwardly moving past Crawford to set down his bag, Will speaks,  “I told you over the phone, Jack. Dumb luck and bad bookkeeping.” The words are unsteady and not the least bit convincing.

 

Jack’s eyebrows iron themselves flat in annoyance.  “When did you have time to check out the construction sites?  We’d just finished closing up the Cassie Boyle crime scene.”

 

Will unpacks silently, leaving Jack to fill in the blanks.

 

Jack persists with his line of questioning, “Why not at least _tell_ _me_ what you had planned?”

 

Breaking from class prep, Will huffs and glares at Jack dead in the eyes.  “I told you to look for a tool-worker after the Elise Nichols autopsy, and we did discuss visiting the construction sites.  I didn’t hide anything from you, Jack.” Will straightens a stack of papers beside him. “The visit was last minute. I didn’t expect to find the Minnesota Shrike tucked away in those files.”

 

Jack looks like a lover spurned, his frustration leaching away at the atmosphere. “What if Hobbs wasn't eating alone?”

 

The change in subject hits Will square in the gut.   _What is he implying...?_

 

“A lot of work. Disappearing these girls, butchering them and then worse. All without leaving a shred of anything outside of this room.  Hobbs and his daughter spent a lot of time together. She would be the ideal bait, wouldn't she?”

 

 _Oh._ “Abigail Hobbs is a suspect?”

 

Jack nods. “Befriended the girls and led them into her father’s den of terror.”

 

For some reason, Will’s blood boils at the suggestion.  “Hobbs killed alone.” His words are final, speaking a language only Jack can understand.

 

Jack is silent after that.  When the first few students begin to file in he finally leaves Will to his lesson, but not before giving him a look that reads as _this conversation isn’t over._  Will shrugs the weight of their conversation off his shoulders, readying himself for his lecture.  He plugs the USB drive into his clunker of a laptop and loads up the slideshow, only looking up for a spare second to check that the students are in attendance and the seats filled.

 

More than filled, several students have been consigned to lining the walls due to a lack of seating.  Many unfamiliar faces dot the crowd, and when the lights dim they break out into raucous applause.

 

Will grimaces at the scene, holding out his hands in a signal for silence.  “Thank you. Please stop that.”

 

When the projector finishes buffering, Garret Jacob Hobbs’s resignation letter is displayed for all to see. Will moves out from behind his desk to clear the view, “This is how I caught Garret Jacob Hobbs. It's his resignation letter. Anybody see the clue?”

 

Multiple hands shoot up into the air, desperate to impress.  Will ignores them all. “There isn’t one. He wrote a letter, left his phone number... but no address. That’s it.”  The slideshow transitions to reveal Garret Jacob Hobbs and his daughter posed in front of their hunting cabin, seductive in its suggestion of happier times. “Garret Jacob Hobbs is behind bars facing capital punishment. The question now is how to stop those his story is going to inspire.” Will has to tear himself away from the lure of the family portrait in order to move onto the next slide: Cassie Boyle impaled on a set of antlers in all her naked, gruesome glory.  Phantom pains stab into Will’s own abdomen.

 

“He’s already got one admirer.”

 

* * *

 

His last class ends with the trainees aflutter with whispers and dodgy glances in Will’s direction.  They’re sensible enough not to approach him, which Will is grateful for as he stuffs his work bag. A look at his watch reveals that the time reads as 12:15 PM.   _Time enough for the shooting range._

 

Will leaves his lecture hall in a hurry, only to be stopped by the one and only Dr. Bloom.  Alana is donning a red wrap dress and black heels, her lips and eyes tastefully made up in natural hues.  Will’s breath catches in his throat, but Alana speaks for him anyway.

 

“Will.  How are you?”

 

Memories of the past three days race across his mind.   _Hm, let me think._  “I’m not sure,”   _I killed a man, developed the ability to travel back in time,_ “Yourself?” _and just spent the past three days in a blind panic._

 

Alana’s smile is warm and inviting.  “I haven’t seen you around for the past few days.  I heard that you cracked the Minnesota Shrike case.”

 

Will rubs the small of his neck, shrugging.  “Bad bookkeeping and dumb luck, really. Not much done on my part.”

 

Alana suddenly scowls, her gaze directed beyond Will’s form.  “Prepare for an ambush,” she warns.

 

Will looks over his shoulder- leaping down the hallway, Jack is nearing the two of them at an alarming pace.   _A man about town._ When he reaches Will and Alana his words are one great emission of immediacy, “What do you know about gardening?”

 

Will and Alana share a look of mutual confusion. Jack catches his breath before explaining- “Fresh scene; first responders are waiting on us to make an appearance.  Nine victims found buried alive in a local forest.”

 

Alana’s stare is unforgiving as she crosses her arms.  “Will has _just_ returned from leave.  It's a little early for consulting,  don't you think Jack?”

 

Jack sideyes Will without a trace of guilt.  Will is coming to the scene whether he likes it or not, the real question is how long are they going to drag out this argument before Jack ultimately wins.   _Lives_ _are at stake_ , Will winces.  But part of him wishes to rewind and avoid Dr. Bloom and Crawford altogether by taking the back exit.

 

“Will can make up his own mind,” Jack declares. “Can't you, Will?”

 

“I was hoping Will and I would be able to pay a visit to Louise and Abigail Hobbs today.” Alana steps forward, guns blazing.

 

Will looks at his watch.  12:27 PM. This could easily go on all day.  Turning to face Alana, he speaks, “Sorry Alana, but Jack's right.  They need me over there.” He means to let her down easily but his impatience saps the apology of any real value.

 

Alana’s face creases with concern. “Well, alright,” she concedes.  “But be careful, Will. Don't lose yourself.”

 

_Easier said than done._

 

* * *

 

The whole team is awaiting Jack and Will’s arrival.  A modest amount of the forest has been sectioned off by barricade tape and a small army of EMT workers.  At first glance it is unexceptional, fading into the organized chaos of the woods that surround Will.

 

“Seven bodies, various stages of decay, all very well fertilized,” Jimmy chimes in, flanking Will.

 

The corpses themselves are unimpressive- _grey, pitiful things_ \- rather, Will finds himself drawn to the cacophony of life that has burst out from within the grave.  The bodies that have yet to be salvaged by the EMT crew are shrouded in various lurid fungi and eager carrion.  Multi-colored mushrooms have risen above their fleshy vessels to dominate the crime scene, so very loud in their triumph over man.  The effect is amplified by the mouths of the victims, forced shut by the tight seal of convenience store duct tape. This killer is passionate about his work.  A sense of entitlement sinks into Will as _he surveys his crop_ , but the feeling is underscored by a tinge of desperation.   _He’s lonely._

 

Beverly Katz’s voice rings out, “He buried them in a high-nutrient compost. He was enthusiastically encouraging decomposition.”

 

“Line and rebar were to administer intravenous fluids after burial. He was feeding them something,” Zeller adds, pointing towards the instruments in question.

 

“He’s searching for a connection.  Desperately searching, really.” All eyes are on Will now.  He does his best to hone in on a vision of long filaments of mycelium, branching into each other, over and _over_ and over _and over_ ….

 

Beverly clears her throat, breaking the silence. “Someone should tell this guy that OKcupid is a thing.”

 

Zeller exhales sharply through his nose. “Well, he certainly got his message across.  Not sure he’s my type, though.” He chuckles to himself.

 

“No restraints.  Nothing to stop them from crawling out.”  The arrogance of the fact shakes Will to his core.

 

“Just dirt.”  Price affirms.

 

Jack chooses this time to emerge, shouting his words from the metaphorical rooftop.  “Let’s clear the scene, everyone.” He nods at Will as everyone but him is escorted outside the barricade tape.

 

* * *

 

Will stands before the seven plots, channeling his anxiety through his fingers as he repeatedly tightens them into fists. Seven shallow plots are transformed into impassable chasms, feeding into the tension that has his shoulders caught in gridlock. The threat of an accidental rewind weighs heavily on his mind.  What if this time he's sent back days? Weeks? _Years?_

 

But there's no avoiding it.  The Federal Bureau of Investigation is a demanding audience: their stares snap up like starved piranhas at the nape of Will’s neck.  Will closes his eyes and does his best to ignore the bites.

 

And then they’re really gone, lost in the swing of the pendulum as it flies free, escaping into the sea of the forest.  Shedding his skin like it’s second nature, Will’s eyes open in immediate view of a strawberry-haired woman. It’s her sole defining feature amidst the layers of coal-black soil that cloak her from the neck down.  Shovel in hand, Will resumes his work, answering to an immutable calling. _I choose this woman_ .  A load of compost lands, dispersing itself throughout the plot. _I do not bind her arms or legs as I bury her in a shallow grave._ The final serving of earth covers the woman’s face in its entirety, a few stray tendrils of hair protruding from the ground like exposed roots.   _She is alive but will never be conscious again._

 

Looking up from his handiwork, Will’s line of sight falls down a row of identical dirt beds.  Each plot is marked by a ghastly hand breaking through the terrain, fastened in place via line and rebar.  The fruits of his labor have already begun to blossom; from top to bottom fungal plates are set in escalating stages of growth.  The most recent development of which, albeit untenanted, carries the singular promise to join in on the glory of its brothers and sisters.  

 

 _This is my design._ The thought wells up within Will like a fat drop of oil, melting in his veins in a pleasurable, pulsating fashion.  Sensing the pendulum’s sluggish movements, he readies himself for his return to a disappointing reality. But the moment doesn’t come.

 

Peering through a single eyelid, Will is met with an unobstructed view of the forest, no barricade tape in sight.   _Something’s wrong._  What was previously satisfaction gives way to frustration as Will moves to inspect the grave before him.   _A bad seed._ Unprompted, Will digs his hands into the fresh compost, seeking out the contagion.  Sweat and dirt caulk the crevices of his palms as anger feeds into a panic, compelling him to dig deeper, _deeper, deeper-_

 

Louise Hobbs’s eyes emerge- two shrunken pits of terror planted in a pale face.  Her neck, split open by the serrated drag of her husband's kitchen knife, is a gaping chassis of blood and dirt.  She tears at his forearms, choking out strangled cries for help as her fingernails peel off his flesh in ragged strips of pink and red.  Two streams of thought crash together in Will's mind: anger over spoiled goods and fervent desperation to save this woman.  His hands wrap around her neck, whether to stop the bleeding or _shut her up_ he doesn't know- the conflict playing a game of putty with his mind.

 

* * *

 

Will comes to within Jack’s car, his eyes taking in the sight of the stocky FBI agent.  Stray sunbeams have set his face alight, illuminating numerous wrinkles and blemishes-no doubt the product of endless years spent in the field.  Unconsciously, Will traces the corners of his own mouth, stopping short when his fingers meet with a sticky wetness. Comprehension dawns as the synapses of his brain explode in pain. “What,” he struggles to get the words out, “...what time is it?”  

 

Jack takes his eyes off the road to glance at the dashboard.  “It’s 12:40, why?”

 

Will doubles over in pain now, the fire of his mind spreading throughout the rest of his body.  Hunched, he holds both hands against his nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding. His voice is small when he speaks.  “Got any tissues?”

 

Reaching back with one hand Jack pulls forth a box of tissues, sliding them into the space between Will's lap and chest.  “Something wrong?”

 

Will brings a clump of tissues to his nose and groans as his mind contracts.  The crop. Louise Hobbs, bleeding and desperate. _His hands around her throat._  “Jack.  Jack, one of them is still alive.”  

 

Jack doesn’t look at him. “What?”

 

“The seventh plot.  In the garden. Jack, you need to tell them before her time runs out.  She's half-dead already.”

 

Jack doesn't budge.  

 

 _There's no time_.  Bloody tissues take flight as Will grabs the steering wheel and pulls the car over onto the side of the road.  Tires meet with gravel and the sedan lands with a screeching halt; sitting back, Will sighs and resumes cleaning his face.

 

The clenching of Jack's hands into fists is almost audible.  “What the hell is wrong with you?!” He bellows, finally giving Will his full attention.

 

Will speaks through a load of Kleenex, his voice muffled but urgent.  “Call them now. Anyone. Zeller, Price, Katz- just tell them that the person in the seventh plot is _alive._  Strawberry blonde hair, Caucasian female.”

 

Jack’s fury feeds into Will like a hot wire.  The current of emotion is circuit-breaking- Will is certain his brain is _on fire._  But then Jack's cellphone is out and he's dialing a number, each press of the keypad a cool wind against Will's mind.

 

“Jack?  Are you almost here?” Beverly's voice is hazy through the bad connection.

 

Jack raises an eyebrow at Will.   _Last chance._  Will nods despite himself.

 

“Agent Katz, I,”-Jack pauses for a moment-“I need you to check the seventh garden plot for any sign of life.”  The words are spoken slowly and methodically, as if Jack is considering every syllable of their insanity.

 

Silence meets the two men in the car.  “How did you know...” Will can hear her voice weaken as she follows Jack's instructions, the phone signal wavering.  The sound of dirt being swept aside, then, “Oh Christ.”

 

Jack lowers the phone gradually as Beverly starts shouting.  On the fifth “they're alive!” he hangs up. Laying his head against the steering wheel, exhausted, he speaks:

 

“Do I even _want_ to know how you knew that?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your nice comments and kudos!


	4. Chapter 4

                                                                        

Her name is Adelaide Mooney.

 

Jack’s call gave the EMTs just enough time to save her life.  The thought sends a chill down Will’s spine: this _power_ has saved a life for a third time.  The evidence is laid out on the hospital bed before him in the form of a young woman; resting soundly with the soft lull of the heart monitor, it’s hard to imagine that this sleeping beauty had almost been plant fertilizer.

 

5:02 PM.  Will has been sitting in the hospital room for well over an hour by now.  He’s set up his niche on a corner sofa that faces the hospital bed from the right, quietly observing Adelaide Mooney as she lays in a medically-induced coma.  The nurses check her vitals every twenty-odd minutes. So when Will hears the click of heels from down the hallway, he’s surprised to see Dr. Alana Bloom appear in the doorway.

 

“Mr. Graham, local hero,” she speaks, impersonating a TV News Anchor.  “I bet a commendation is within your reach by now.”  

 

Will shifts over to the edge of the sofa and offers her a sad smile in response.  “It was a lucky guess. And six other people are still dead by his hands.”

 

Alana purses her lips as she sits down beside him.  “Don’t feel sorry for yourself because you saved this girl’s life.”  Her arm nudges him as she adds, “As well as the lives of Louise and Abigail Hobbs.”

 

He considers her words for a moment.  “There isn’t any guarantee Garret Jacob Hobbs was going to kill his wife and daughter.”

 

“I think he was building up to it,” Alana says; she places her hand on Will’s arm, squeezing it with affection.  “You saved their lives. And the lives of any future Minnesota Shrike victims.”

 

 _If only I could tell her everything._ Will avoids her eyes- he feels so _goddamn guilty_ \- and stares ahead at the woman on the hospital bed.  His stomach lurches when he finds Louise Hobbs staring back with cold, dead eyes.

 

“Will?” Alana tightens her hold on his arm.

 

Will buries his face in his hands, breaking free from her grasp.  He feels feverish. “I'm not in control of what's happening to me.”  The confession drops out of him like stone, planting itself in front of Dr. Bloom.  It's only a fraction of the boulder weighing on his shoulders.

 

Alana uncrosses her legs, sitting in parallel with Will.  She clears her throat, “Just because you can empathize with killers doesn't mean you are one, Will.  If you push yourself like this something is bound to push back.”

 

“Dr. Lecter sees it as the ‘fortification’ of my mind.”

 

Alana folds her hands in her lap.  “Hannibal is one of the best psychiatrists in the field, Will.”  Her voice deepens, serious- “You're in good hands.”

  

“I know.” _He doesn't know._ “It's just- therapy doesn't work on me, Alana.  Never has and never will.”

 

“Hannibal isn't just any other psychiatrist.” 

 

Will laughs at that, thinking back to a hotel conversation since erased from time.  “You've got that right. He brought me breakfast back in Minnesota. Who does that?”

 

“Hannibal does that,” Alana speaks, her voice full of mirth.  “Always helping others before he helps himself. You have that in common.”

 

Will scrunches his face in mock gravity.  “What a radical pathology. Listen,” he cups a hand to his ear, “Freddie Lounds is calling for a book deal.”

 

Alana covers her mouth as she laughs.  “I read her piece on the Minnesota Shrike.  What did she call you again? Jack Crawford’s-”

 

Will groans loudly. “Crime gimp.  Jack Crawford’s crime gimp.”

 

“She has a very colorful vocabulary.  Can’t deny that it invokes a powerful image.”

 

“It is kind of hilarious.”  Looking forward, Will realizes that Louise Hobbs has disappeared from the hospital room.  The thought spurs forth a line of conversation. “You’re Abigail Hobbs’s psychiatrist, correct?”

 

“Newly assigned, yes.”  Alana smiles softly. “I wanted you to come with me today- to meet her.  She’s a very intelligent young woman.”

 

“Jack says she’s a killer.”

 

“Innocent until proven guilty and all that.” Alana casts her face downwards.  “I see you in her.”

 

Will hums, facing Adelaide Mooney.  “Diabetic ketoacidosis.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Official diagnosis,” Will explains.  “Adelaide Mooney is type one diabetic- it’s what induced the coma and nearly killed her.”

 

Alana frowns at his answer.  “The killer is the one who nearly killed her.”

 

Will nods in agreement, rolling her words over in his mind.  The realization hits him full force. “All his victims will have died from kidney failure.”  Standing, he lets the thoughts run through his mind uninterrupted, “he has access to their personal information- their medication.”

 

“A pharmacist,”  Alana concludes.

 

“Or at the very least someone who works in medical services.”  He snaps his fingers. _That’s it._

 

Alana is already dialing Jack’s number.

 

* * *

 

Immediately after receiving Alana’s phone call, Crawford and the team set out to locate each one of the victims’ regular pharmacies.  PrevuLex Drugs pops up twice.

 

“Each victim died of kidney failure, just as you predicted,”-Jack’s expression is wooden as he moves- “Gretchen Speck is the eighth diabetic customer of the chain to have disappeared after filling an insulin prescription, second from this exact location.  Adelaide Mooney was the first.”

 

“And the other six?”

 

“All over the county.”  Jack rounds a corner, trailing half a dozen FBI agents. “One pharmacist has been all over the county, too.”

 

“A floater.”

 

Widening his stride, Jack allows himself a small smile.  “Floater's floating right here. Still logged into his work station.”

 

Will is left in the dust as Jack charges forth- his voice carries throughout the pharmacy, bouncing off the shelves to hit you from every angle.

 

" _Everyone._ Stop what you're doing and put your hands _in the air_.”

 

The four pharmacists at the desk are falling over themselves in their race to obey, and Will has to restrain himself from following Jack’s instructions as well.  Two others skulk out of the woodworks, joining the spectacle as they shakily set aside bags of prescription meds and raise up their hands for inspection.

 

Jack pulls out his badge and holds it out before him, speaking stolidly. “I'm Special Agent Jack Crawford. Which one of you is Eldon Stammets?”

 

The pack of pharmacists is unresponsive, all frozen like a deer caught in the headlights.

 

“ _Eldon Stammets_.  You seen him?  Answer me, damn it!”

 

“W-what’s happening?” The most senior pharmacist's lips can barely stop quivering long enough to stammer the question.

 

“One of your customers didn't go to work this morning after picking up a prescription here yesterday, filled by Eldon Stammets. We have reason to believe he abducted her.”  Will can hear the frustration seeping into Jack’s voice, and it only serves to amplify his own.  

 

A voice from the back pipes up,  “Eldon? Eldon was just here. Just now.”

 

Jack’s already headed towards the exit.

 

* * *

 

“We missed the son of a bitch by damn near ten minutes.” 

 

Jack punches the side of the ambulance as Will watches, helpless.  An EMT gives both of them a dirty look as he closes the doors behind the FBI’s latest rescue- Gretchen Speck.

 

“Eleven minutes and he may have left with Gretchen Speck,” Will offers.

 

Jack raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Nine minutes and Stammets would be in handcuffs.” 

 

Will knows an accusation when he hears one, and he crosses his arms to deflect Jack’s barbed words.  “You don’t need me to tell you that convenience doesn’t come often in this line of work.”

 

Jack massages his temple through his words, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean that. We know his name. We know where he lives. We have his car. We'll have him within 24 hours.”

 

 _Nine minutes and Stammets would be in handcuffs._ The thought lingers with Will, a specter of an idea haunting his mind.  He has yet to _purposefully_ manipulate time, outside of that freak occurrence in Minnesota.  _But extreme stress certainly appears to trigger it_ \- Will can feel his heart racing- _and I'll be damned if that isn't right now._  

 

Stretching out his right arm and unfurling his fingers, Will pays obeisance to whatever god chose to inflict this _gift_ upon him.  He should be used to it by now- carrying the sins of humanity and playing savior.  But this curse is something else entirely, so painfully foreign that Will can't decide if its roots lay in heaven or hell.  And with his palm exposed to the cool night air, Will is paralyzed by the uncertainty: it steals the air out of his lungs, leaving him a vortex of both torpor and terror.  

 

_“Will?  What the hell are you doing?”_

 

 Jack’s words barely manage to penetrate the whirlpool.  Even with his eyes shut Will can see his reaction: he’s been the target of that steely look of frustration enough times to have it memorized.  The rest of the team is probably watching him now too, their mouths agape like trouts chasing bait on a hook.

 

When Will senses that he is falling, he imagines that he is merely a fish swimming downstream.

 

* * *

 

Will comes to against the cold pavement, his head a bowl of warm cereal.  The blood runs freely as he clutches the back of his skull, struggling to keep the oats together.  His vision is milky from the tears that have sprouted forth in response to the stinging pain, but through the waterworks Will recognizes that the parking lot is now devoid of police cars and ambulances.  He’s either traveled back in time _, or everyone felt well enough to leave me here, unconscious, for hours._ Glancing at his watch- _7:30 PM_ \- Will concludes it to be the former.  _Thank god._

 

This means Stammets is set to run out of PrevuLex Drugs in exactly twenty minutes.  And _that_ gives him fifteen odd minutes before Stammets leaves the front desk.  _Alright,_ Will lifts himself off the ground, _walk through the front, start a dialogue, get Stammets to turn himself in without any more bloodshed.  Shouldn’t be too difficult._

 

Will makes sure his piece is hidden beneath his jacket before he steps through the pharmacy’s automatic doors.  He’s managed to wipe most of the blood off of his face and chin- he can’t afford to give the impression of local neurotic fisherman-turned-FBI-aide to the gardener-turned-murderer.  His footsteps are measured, paced to meet the appearance of an average customer; Will pauses to browse the aisle, picking up a bottle of Advil before stopping at the front desk. _Don’t give him any reason to raise his alarms._

 

“Eldon Stammets?” 

 

The face of normalcy turns in response.  His expression is genial and trustworthy, the middle-age and patchy bald spots all a complement to this man’s presumably sage and good intentions.

 

“Can I help you-” 

 

Stammets stops dead in his tracks upon laying eyes on Will, dropping his pill dispenser to land with a sharp _clack!_ against the vinyl floor.  _He recognizes-_

 

“Will Graham.”  Stammets is shaking his head, decidedly _not_ making a run for it, rather- “I was just reading about you.  You’re as good as Freddie Lounds said you would be.”

 

Will is too shocked to speak.   He hadn’t prepared for this- _Eldon Stammets reads Tattlecrime?_

 

The pharmacy is just shy of closing hours; the other pharmacists are nowhere to be seen, and the aisles are desolate of any customers outside of two odd women fussing over sleeping pill brands. _It’s just us right now._

“You,” Eldon Stammets is gripping the outermost edge of the front desk, white-knuckled, “you understand why I did it.  Why it had to be done- how I was _helping_ those people.”

 

Will’s hand ghosts over the outline of his gun.  “I know you have Gretchen Speck in the trunk of your car.  What are you planning to do with her?”

 

Eldon smiles bashfully as he meets Will’s eyes. “We evolved from mycelium.  Only reintroducing her to the concept.”

 

“By burying her alive?”

 

“Opisthokontum. A superkingdom of animalia and fungi together.  Don’t pretend you don’t understand,” Eldon flashes yellow in a wide-toothed grin, “walk into a field of mycelium, they know you're there. Their spores reach for you when you pass by.”

 

Will understands too well.  Memories of Louise Hobbs, bleeding on the doorstep, in the forest, in the hospital- “I _don’t_ understand.  I’m _not_ like you.”  He’s aiming his gun now, lining Stammets’s forehead with the crosshair.

But it isn’t Eldon Stammets anymore.  Garret Jacob Hobbs is smiling at him with a terrible sort of pride, his teeth gleaming like daggers in the sanitized light of the pharmacy.  Six bullet holes decorate his frame, bleeding into the pristine form of the PrevuLex Drugs uniform. Visceral pleasure rips through Will at the sight, _he did that!_ , and the temptation to retrace his steps is overwhelming.  That first kill had been gratifying, but necessary- to kill him a second time would be flat-out _hedonistic._ And if there’s one thing Will deserves, it’s a little self-indulgence: how many times has he catered to the demands of Jack and others?

 

" _Will!_  Lower your weapon!"

 

_Speak of the devil._

 

The clamor of footsteps in the background causes Will’s hands to begin to shake.  His finger is squeezing the trigger- he hasn’t planned for this- but he’s so _furious_ that this _pig gets to live-_

 

A warm hand rests itself on top of Will’s own.  Slowly, Will lifts his finger off the trigger and the muzzle lowers to face the ground.  The gun slips out of his hand by force of a Hannibal Lecter, who hands the weapon off to Jack as he pulls Will behind a small army of FBI agents.

 

 Hannibal speaks coolly as the arrest proceeds. “The killer has been apprehended, Will.  No need to become one yourself.” 

 

* * *

 

“One second you’re standing beside me,” Jack is rubbing his chin, pacing furiously, “and then you’re not!”

 

 Jack stops to stare pointedly at Will, who has been standing awkwardly beside Hannibal throughout the tirade. 

 

“What happened to you between the time we were in Quantico,” he breathes in deeply, “...and now?”

 

Will’s been backed into a corner.  Confess, or keep spinning a flimsy web of lies.  “I was following a hunch, Jack.”

 

“A hunch good enough to disappear without a word, and drive fifty miles?!” Jack’s expression is one of total disbelief, his eyes wide as he considers the lunacy of Will’s words.

 

“Jack, what good is Will to you if not for his instinct?” Hannibal parts from Will’s side to offer a voice of reason, angling his head compassionately so as to meet Jack’s gaze.  “The insight Will’s empathy grants him is beyond a measure either you or I can comprehend.”

 

“I think Will can speak for himself right now, Dr. Lecter,” Jack snaps, but Will can see that Hannibal’s words have some effect.

 

Grateful for the interruption, Will snatches at the opportunity to change the subject.  

 

“What is Dr. Lecter doing here, Jack?” Will shoots Hannibal an apologetic look, “this is an FBI matter.”

 

Both Jack and Hannibal raise their eyebrows at Will’s aggression, but no one moves to address the sudden change in subject matter. 

 

“I was in the area,” Hannibal breaches the silence, “and when you disappeared Jack called me for any possible information regarding your location.  I volunteered to ride with the FBI in case they required assistance.”

 

“‘Required assistance?’   Doing what- managing me?” Will glares at the pair of them, praying that his outburst would be enough for Jack to forget his line of questioning.

 

Jack doesn’t dignify the question with a response.  Sidelining Hannibal, he closes in on Will with surprising speed, his voice low and threatening when he speaks. “Will, I need to be able to trust you to tell me if there’s anything wrong.  I know I’ve been pushing you,” Jack’s eyes soften as he regards Will’s battered and exhausted form, “but we both know you’re at your best when pushed.”

 

Without another word, Jack turns to join Beverly Katz at Eldon Stammets’s workstation, both of them grimacing when the bright red  _TATTLECRIME_ header loads onto the monitor.

 

“I thought you might appreciate a ride home,” Hannibal’s voice sounds in Will’s ear.

 

Will turns to face Hannibal, paying him a self-conscious smile.  He had anticipated Hannibal to be upset by his show of bravado, but the psychiatrist's bright features and look of deep fascination present the exact opposite.   _Hannibal isn’t just any other psychiatrist,_ Alana's words echo in Will's mind.

 

_You’re in good hands._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing in present tense? Time travel? Is this decent fanfic, or just crack???
> 
> Anyway, I've taken a few creative liberties with certain scenes, and you might've noticed that Will's time travel powers have given him some extra confidence. Turns out being able to reverse any negative consequences lets you look people in the eye...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
